


Somebody Else's Problem

by MollyC



Category: Bones (TV), Castle, Highlander: The Series, House M.D., James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Spoilers for all aired seasons of SPN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyC/pseuds/MollyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes even hunters--even Winchesters--know when to leave it to someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only One

"Hey, handmaiden," Charlie says as soon as Dean picks up.  "There's this weird news report and I thought it looked like your kind of thing, so get out your writing implement of choice."

"Uh, sure, hi," Dean says, and flips over his paper placemat with one hand while fishing in his pocket for a pen with the other.  Sam, slumped on the other side of the booth, perks up just a little when Dean mouths  _Charlie_ at him, but he doesn't have the energy for much perking these days.  "OK, hit me."

"Two different reports," Charlie says briskly.  "Both in bad parts of town.  Light shows, big ones, complete with broken windows and mysterious noises."

"OK, that sounds bad," Dean says.  "Angels, maybe."

There's a brief pause and then Charlie says, "How is this my life?  Anyway, both times, by the time the cops got there, nothing left but the bodies."

"Eyes burned out," Dean says, wincing in anticipation.

"No," Charlie says, drawing out the word.  "Is that really a thing?  That's really a thing, isn't it?  Don't tell me if that's a thing.  No, their eyes were fine.  It was their heads.  Chopped clean off."

"Oh, those guys," Dean says, and sets his pen down. 

"Those guys?" says Charlie, in a tone of extreme skepticism.

"Yep," Dean replies, a little more cheerful.  "We call 'em the beheading guys."  (Sam rolls his eyes and mutters, " _You_ call them that," which Dean loftily ignores.)  "They're some kind of weird all right, but they only go after each other so mostly we just don't bother.  Also they're hard as hell to kill unless you take the heads off, no one's ever found a bullet that'd do more than annoy one."

"Oh," Charlie replies, a little faintly.

"Bobby used to talk to a couple of the guys who keep an eye on 'em," Dean goes on.  "They have some super-secret tattoo or something, it's kinda funny."

"Says the man who lives in a secret bunker," Charlie says, and Dean grins into his phone.


	2. Mightiest

Dean comes back from his food run to find Sam sitting in front of the crappy motel TV with his laptop open and a streaming news service blinking bright red urgency.

"What's going on?" he asks.

Sam turns to look at him, and Dean carefully does not freak out at his brother's wide, wild eyes.  "There's an army of monsters attacking New York," Sam says in the flat tone of someone who's gone through panic and out the other side.

"What?" Dean says, and dumps his load of carry-out boxes on the nearest flat surface.  He circles to get a better look at the screens and sure enough, there are some seriously fugly guys on flying rocket-sled things, shooting up a forest of tall buildings that he's more than prepared to believe is New York City.  "Dude, are you sure that's not a movie?"

"It's showing on every channel this place receives," Sam says. "Including the Home Shopping Network."

"Oh," Dean says.  "Shit."

Sam nods, and they watch in silence for a while.  Most of the footage is handheld-shaky or the crappy quality of security cameras or both, but it slowly becomes clear that while the cops are mostly trying to get civilians out, there are actually people  _fighting_ the monsters.  Dean sees the red-and-gold flash of Tony Stark in his Iron Man suit--a piece of cool that Dean would  _kill_ to get five minutes alone with--and there's a woman in black who seems to fight primarily by being so awesome that the bad guys just fall down, and a couple of times they get glimpses of monster corpses with honest-to-fuck arrows in them, which last Dean checked wasn't standard equipment for law enforcement.  The huge green guy sets off all Dean's "troll" instincts but seems to be smashing the rocket-sleds so he's probably on the right side. A big blond in something like armor whacks things with an extraordinarily effective hammer, which makes up for the dorky cape at least, and also...

"Holy shit, is that  _Captain America_?"


	3. Consulting

Muggers are not Dean's job, as a rule, but on the other hand, what's a guy supposed to do when he sees someone stagger out of a bar drunk off his ass and three other guys follow him down a dark alley?  By the time Dean's around the corner he's wincing at the sounds of the truly epic beatdown and he draws his gun to make it a little more convincing when he tells them to lay off.  He edges around the Dumpster as the sound of one final smack echos off the dirty brick to find the drunk guy standing in the middle of three downed bodies.  It's not bright enough to tell whether they're all breathing, though at least one is semi-conscious and making pitiful noises.

The drunk guy, who Dean's going to bet isn't actually drunk, straightens and turns his head.  He tenses and his eyes flick over Dean in a rapid assessment.

"What's up with your buddies here?" Dean asks, casually but without lowering his gun.

"You're not a police officer," the guy says, his voice even more snottily English than Balthazar's was.  "Nor do you plan to summon one.  You're not one of them, either."  He kicks the nearest thug, who grunts. "What do you want?"

Dean blinks at him.  "Um. Thought I'd keep a guy from getting rolled but it looks like you handled that on your own."

The guy seems a little taken aback.  He kinda looks like what's-his-face from the new Trek movie, the one who replaced Montalbán.  "I did.  But, ah, thank you."

"No problem," Dean says.  

They stand there for a few seconds and then the guy says briskly, "Unless you feel like becoming party to a felony, I'd suggest you leave."

Dean feels his eyebrows go up.  "What're you gonna do?"

"Nothing they don't richly deserve," the guy says, and there's something in his voice that's utterly convincing.  Dean scans him in turn.  He looks like he hasn't been sleeping, looks like a guy on the run.  Or maybe on the hunt, but there's nothing about him or the thugs that suggests they're anything but ordinary humans.

"Don't get killed," Dean says, and holsters his gun as he turns away.


	4. Murder, He Wrote

Dean doesn't spend a lot of time in big cities.  He's never been able to figure out why, but the weird stuff tends to stay away from them.  It's just as well, because parking his baby in a place like Chicago or LA is always a nightmare.  Case in point: they've been driving around for almost ten minutes trying to find a spot, and Sam is starting to vibrate in his seat.

"You gotta pee or something?" Dean asks, throwing his brother a glance.

"I don't like to be late," Sam says.  He's pissed, but not at Dean.

"You can always get out and I can pick you up later," Dean offers, since they're stopped waiting for a light.  Not that he's in a hurry to leave Sam alone so soon after getting him back, but going to one meeting solo isn't gonna kill either of them.

Sam shrugs.  "We should both be there."

"Suit yours...what the hell?"  Dean's attention is diverted by movement in the side mirror, a guy who bursts around the corner and into the street, running like his life depends on it.  A second later a woman rounds the same corner, shouting, "NYPD, hold it right there!"

The runner, to absolutely no one's surprise, doesn't listen.  Which in and of itself isn't such a big deal, but the guy has blood spattered over his shirt and jacket like an ugly expensive painting.  Not, in Dean's experience, a sign of a solid citizen.  So when the guy comes level with the car, Dean throws his door open, wincing at the protest of the hinges when the runner collides with the sudden barrier.  The guy staggers and rebounds into a perfect pratfall, and he must hit his head on the pavement because he yelps in pain and doesn't try to get right up.  On the other side of the car Sam opens his door and gets out; Dean's kind of stuck where he is unless he feels like crawling across the front seat.

The woman pounds up to them and skids to a stop, drawing a gun.  Dean catches a flash of a badge on her belt.  "As I was saying," she says around deep but controlled breaths, "you have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."  She goes calmly through the rest of the Miranda warning.  The perp doesn't seem to be interested in trying to run anymore, which might be because the cop's Sig is pointed at his chest.

Now that Dean has a chance to take a better look, the cop is  _hot_.  Super, mega hot.  Way too hot to be a cop, if you ask him, but no one ever does.  Once she's got the perp cuffed, she looks Dean over like she's deciding whether to buy him.  He grins.  

"Thanks, Mister...?"

"Stanley," Dean says.  "Paul Stanley, and you can  _totally_ call me Paul."

"Like the lead singer of Kiss?" a new voice says.  It's a good-looking guy in a button-down, blazer and topcoat ensemble that makes him look like an English professor, who doesn't look like the type to know anything about heavy metal but apparently these days you never know.

"I'm way hotter than him," Dean says.  On the other side of the car, Sam's weight shifts in a way that means he's rolling his eyes.

The cop, who had glanced at English Professor when he spoke, turns her attention back to Dean.  He shrugs.  Her eyes narrow a little bit, but he doesn't think she's planning to look a gift horse in the mouth right now.  "Thanks, Mr. Stanley," she says.

"Just doing my civic duty, detective," Dean says.  In theory she could be off-duty, but the ones who have a belt clip for their badge are usually detectives.

"And fuck you very much for that," the perp mumbles from where the cop has him propped against the side of the Impala.  

She shakes him absently and says, "Shut up," and then draws breath to speak again but Sam cuts her off.

"I don't mean to be rude," he says smoothly, "but we have an appointment we're going to be late to if we don't find a place to park very soon."  It would sound like a crappy excuse except that it's true, and dealing with the Devil is more important than some random cop's collar.  "If you need a statement I'm going to have to ask for your card so we can catch up later."  Dean happens to be looking at English Professor as Sam wraps up the sentence and sees it when the guy blinks.  His eyes flick from Sam to Dean and back and he frowns like he's trying to remember something.  Dean's willingness to go give a statement evaporates like spilled gasoline in high summer, because they are about ten seconds away from being made by a guy who either is a cop or hangs out with one.

Fortunately Cop Lady isn't paying attention to her buddy; she digs for a card one-handed, presents it to Dean, and says, "If you can't make it till tomorrow that's fine but I'd appreciate a call."

"Sure," Dean says heartily, and makes a show of slipping the card into his pocket.  Under cover of the motion he gives Sam a glance and Sam's eyes widen just a tiny bit in alarm.

"Come on, Paul, we need to get going," Sam says, and slips back into the passenger seat.

 Dean can't resist giving Cop Lady a last once-over, but he does it while he's getting back in his seat and turning the car on.  He barely waits for Cop Lady and her prisoner to clear the way before he gets them going; the light at the end of the block is luckily green.  Dean looks back as they turn the corner and sees English Professor staring after them in wide-eyed surprise, and he sighs.

"What?" Sam asks.

"Gonna have to get new plates," Dean says.


	5. Everybody Lies

Dean doesn't have to open his eyes to realize he's in the hospital. He can smell it, hear it, feel it in the slippery plastic bracelet on his wrist. His throat has the unique soreness he remembers from the last time; apparently they had to stick a tube in him, which means he was pretty bad off. He doesn't feel great now, to be perfectly honest; his chest is heavy and he feels like it's bedtime even though he obviously just woke up.

"Good, you're awake," someone says, not Sam, and Dean pries his eyes open. It's not as hard as he was kind of expecting, given that the last thing he remembers is a cloud of reddish smoke exploding in his face. He turns his head in the direction of the voice.  The speaker is a man who's sitting in Dean's visitor chair, his hands clasped on the rounded top of a cane. He cocks his head and goes on, "Do you know your name?"

"Who the hell are you?" Dean says, to buy some time. He doesn't remember off the top of his head what names are on their insurance cards this month, and while _Dean_ is probably a safe bet, the last name's a little more iffy. "Where's my brother?"  His voice sounds awful.

"I'm Doctor House, and I'm your attending physician," the guy says. "If your brother's the gigantic male model who brought you in, he said he had some things to take care of."

The English-to-hunter translator along with Dean's current position means that Dean was cursed and Sam had to go break it. Wonderful. Like he doesn't have enough to worry about with the deal hanging over his head. The doctor--assuming he is a doctor, he's wearing a blazer over a t-shirt and jeans, no lab coat or stethoscope--climbs to his feet. From the way he favors it there's something wrong with the muscle of his right thigh, but he's tall, Dean's height or close to it.

Dean takes advantage of the pause to pick up his wrist and stare at it as if he's just now noticed the hospital bracelet.  It has his real birthday, which is handy, but says his name is Neil Peart, so good thing he checked.  He looks back up at House in time to see annoyance flit over his face.  "What the hell?" Dean says.  "Last thing I remember we were in a bar."  That was the night before the exploding smoke, but Dean figures he can claim he lost some time before whatever Sam said happened.  "I need a drink."  The doctor's eyebrows go up and Dean adds hastily, "Water, I need some water."

"Unfortunately for you, that's not my job," the doctor says, fake-cheerful.  "What's your name?"

"Neil," Dean says.  "Neil Peart."  He puts on his most winning smile.

"Well, _Neil_ , I have to tell you, you're an interesting case," House says.  He might as well be holding a sign over his head that says NOT BUYING IT.  "Until two hours ago, you were circling the drain and we had no idea why.  Now, you're fresh as a daisy.  I find that _very_ interesting."

Dean draws a breath to reply but it catches in his throat and he starts coughing, a painful hacking cough that brings up a wad of something nasty; the doctor, looking bored, hands him a tissue to spit into.  He eyes the putty-colored gunk in muted horror, mixed with concern because he's pretty sure he doesn't want this guy thinking of him as "interesting"; interesting things get remembered.  "Well, except for the pneumonia," the doctor says.

Dean's saved from having to try to climb out of his hospital bed and punch a cripple by the welcome sound of Sam's voice in the hallway.  A second later comes Sam himself, followed by a hot chick in a lab coat.  "Neil!" Sam says, and there's all sorts of relief in his voice even with the fake name.

"Hey, bro," Dean says.

"I keep telling you to call me Alex," Sam says in exactly the same tone he usually uses to complain about "Sammy", and Dean represses a smile.  Sam goes on, "Doctor Cameron tells me they're going to have to get you a prescription for some antibiotics."

"Sounds like it," Dean says, and beams at House.  "Good thing pneumonia's easy to fix, huh?"

House smiles an unconvincing smile.  "Great," he says insincerely.

Dean keeps smiling and starts planning how he's going to get the hell out of here.


	6. The Ghost in the Cave

Seeley hates paperwork. He's convinced that anyone who claims not to is lying or deluded.  But he's willing to admit that his method of dealing with his paperwork maybe isn't the best; he lets it pile up until the oldest thing absolutely has to be dealt with right now, and then does as much as he can force himself to in one long session of blue-inked pens, too much coffee, and eyestrain.  That's why he's in his office at 2:30 in the morning when the call comes in.

"Agent Booth," he answers, hoping it's not an emergency; the squints would know to call his cell but there are plenty of people who might try his office if his home phone didn't answer.  Truthfully, he's thankful for the interruption as long as no one's in trouble.

The voice on the other end says, "Son of a bitch!"  Seeley waits.  "Uh, sorry, wasn't expecting to get an actual answer, I was just gonna leave you a message."  It's a guy's voice, a little gruff, generic raised-on-network-TV American accent, and it sounds kind of like the owner's coming down from an adrenaline spike.  'Leave a message' at least implies that this isn't life or death, which is a nice change.

"What can I do for you?" Seeley asks.

"I wanna make sure I got the right guy, you're the one who works with the bone scientist lady, right?"  

Seeley sits up straight.  "Why do you ask?"

"Because I got some bones here and someone needs to figure out who the hell they are," the guy says, sounding annoyed.  "If you ain't the right guy, I gotta do some more checking."

"I work with the Jeffersonian Institute's forensics team," Seeley says tightly.

The guy sighs.  "Great, you got a pen?"  He seems totally oblivious to the fact that he's setting off warning bells, which is either a good sign or a really bad one.

Seeley grimaces.  "Yeah."  He has more pens than Bones has bones, or at least it feels that way sometimes.  He stands and picks up his holster with his free hand, holding the phone against his shoulder awkwardly.

"Great, write down these coordinates," the guy says.  He rattles off lat and long down to seconds, sounding tired.  "There are at least fifteen of 'em in there and I only got a name for one, Teresa Villanuevo, she's third from the right."

Seeley pauses.  "Third from the right what?"

"Third from the right body, am I going too friggin' fast for you here?" There's a rumble under his voice now that sounds suspiciously like the engine of a big car.

"Sir, what's your name?" Seeley says, and the guy barks a laugh into his ear.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he says.  "Don't worry about the killer, he's the crispy critter right outside.  Frigging _witches_."

"Stay where you are," Seeley orders.

"Just get your scientist lady to ID all the rest, man," the guy says.  "Teresa didn't know any of their names."

"You...just said Teresa was dead," Seeley says.

"Yeah," the guy says.  "She was just hanging around till she could tell someone her name. Now she's gone, too."  And then he hangs up.

Seeley stares at his phone for about ten seconds before he shakes himself into action.


	7. Winchester.  Dean Winchester.

Dean is looking across the casino floor when Sam nudges him in the ribs. "Is it just me or are those guys up to something?" Sam mutters.

Dean looks in the direction his brother is looking and sees what Sam means instantly: a couple of guys in flashy suits and shades, one of them with a briefcase that he carries like it's got the crown jewels in it.  They both give off an air of hinky that's detectable even at this distance.  One of them turns his head and Dean can feel the eye contact even through the dark glasses; he grins and winks and the dude looks away, which is a relief because Dean's got more important things to do today than dealing with a couple human crooks.  That's casino security's job.

The two guys cross the floor and vanish through a key-carded door.  Sam says uneasily, "Should we go after them?"

Dean is opening his mouth to say no when a third guy hurries out from the direction the hinky guys came from.  He's not quite Dean's height and has a face like a slab of rock, and when his eyes meet Dean's they're ice-blue, paler than Cas's by two or three shades but just as intense. He is also wearing a suit, and even Dean can tell it's expensive, but the way he moves buries the needle on the 'very frigging dangerous' meter and if he's casino security Dean will eat the Impala's front bumper.  "I think he's on it, Sammy," Dean says, and tilts his head in the direction of the door the briefcase dudes went through.

Dangerous Guy looks that way and then back at Dean with his eyebrows raised.  Dean says, "About fifteen seconds," which Dangerous Guy probably can't hear but he must be able to read the words on Dean's lips because he nods and makes for the door.  Dean doesn't see what he does when he gets there, but the door opens for him and he slips through it.  

"I would not like to meet him in a dark alley," says Sam as the door closes.  

"No kidding," Dean agrees.  "You know what, let's just get on the road.  I changed my mind about the poker."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fairly sure these don't all take place in the same continuity. There will be more at some point.


End file.
